


Poison Lips with the Metal Grips

by GwiYeoWeo



Series: You can call me Queen V(ee) [3]
Category: Devil May Cry
Genre: Bottom Dante (Devil May Cry), Bottom Vergil (Devil May Cry), Cock Rings, Dante and Vergil do the deed, Dom/sub Undertones, Hair-pulling, Incest, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Switching, Threesome - M/M/M, Top Dante (Devil May Cry), Top Vergil (Devil May Cry), Topping from the Bottom, Voyeurism, and V supplies a VERY helping hand
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-04
Updated: 2020-12-11
Packaged: 2021-03-09 20:41:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 12,631
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27882406
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GwiYeoWeo/pseuds/GwiYeoWeo
Summary: ‘Just two more days,’ Dante practically wills himself, scratching his fingernail into the wood of his desk. He has to —“Be a good boy while I’m gone,” V had said at the doorway, strapping on his boots and huffing his hair away when they got into his eyes. Then, almost lovingly, he had patted Dante’s cheek with a gentleness that betrayed the sweet cruelty his hand could deal. “That goes for you too, Vergil. I would like to have the shop in one piece while I am gone.”The last time V had left them on a mission trip at Nero’s behest — this time, to help with some ratty witch who’s been terrorizing a town by summoning demons nonstop — Dante and Vergil broke at least a few doors and shattered all their windows over some stupid argument none of them remember. V had returned, unamused, and delivered a promise of a reckoning.A delightful, superb, agonizingly decadent reckoning, Dante remembers with fondness.Now that’s an idea.V returns to Devil May Cry, his favorite mug shattered and with Dante and Vergil stabbing holes into their new floor —again.He decides then, to find a new approach in mending their impertinent behaviors.
Relationships: Dante/V (Devil May Cry), Dante/V/Vergil (Devil May Cry), Dante/Vergil (Devil May Cry), V/Vergil (Devil May Cry)
Series: You can call me Queen V(ee) [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1935502
Comments: 4
Kudos: 48
Collections: Spardacest Server Fics and Art





	1. grind you down and bleed you dry

**Author's Note:**

> psa: vergil tops first, then dante, if that's important to ya

It’s been only a week, but Dante is already missing him something fierce. 

He’s been replacing that void of longing with his usual picks of poison: pizza, whiskey, some demon gore, more pizza and whiskey, and — something, some _one_ he’s only reacquired recently — Vergil. 

They’ve settled into a rhythm of things, as if easily and smoothly picking back up a game of cards they had abandoned long, long ago. Vergil takes his share of demon hunts when he feels frisky, whenever he decides he’s not above petty bounties and extermination requests and has a small itch to scratch. Sometimes he explores different avenues, takes up research on old demonic artifacts or on requests about certain otherworldly knowledge. He’s always been a bookworm, a scholar. But even if his callings take him far, far away — to other cities or countries or even continents — he always comes back to Devil May Cry at the end of the day; and if not by night, then by the early lights of dawn, with Yamato delivering fast and true, effectively shutting down whatever infant buds of paranoia Dante may end up sprouting from his brother’s absence.

Dante’s been taking up more hunts, too. During their underworld lumberjacking adventure, the world was left with one less legendary devil hunter to kick ass and take names. Nero and Nico make for a quaint but damn good team with their demon blender van, but their wheels can only take them so far and so fast; Red Grave City, apparently, wasn’t the only place to be split open by a bunch of hell portals and infestations. The hunts kept Dante busy for a time, always making him coming home hungry or tired or horny — adrenaline and blood a dangerous and intoxicating mix for any demon, half-breed or not — or any combination of the three. 

Sometimes, Vergil helped him relax. Fucking him, or being fucked _by_ him, the deciding factor usually depending on Vergil’s mood or graciousness. 

Other times, V did. With words taken from an encyclopedia of fancy-ass, archaic words that went over Dante’s head, but sounded like straight up _filth_ when whispered in that dripping honeyed voice against the curve of his ear. With slender fingers that could play him like a violin (and _damn_ could V play one), sliding down and over Dante’s most sensitive spots, teasing like a lithe minx, or gripping his hair with a fury that made him tremble with fire in his bones. With a mouth that brought Dante to his knees, a tongue that made him into a babbling mess, and an ass that couldn’t quit. Dante’s pretty sure V took the ass in the “divorce” with Vergil, to be honest, but he’s not gonna complain with everything else dear brother has packing. (Vergil has legs for days, anyway.)

God, Dante super misses V.

He can tell Vergil misses him just as much, if not more, even if the words aren’t there. Vergil is especially restless, practically going out every night to chop down a few demon hordes and returning home with the stench of rot and carnage, or challenging Dante to a game of brotherly rivalry when that's not enough, then to an altogether different sort of heat when crossing blades still doesn't work. There's an edge to him, that glimpse of something primal everytime Vergil crowds Dante up against a wall, with an unintentional display of aggression and dominance from instincts that he never quite shook off during his time under Mundus' thumb. Dante imagines it has something to do with literally missing his other half, even though V's pretty much become his own person and soul now, that has Vergil so wound up. 

It's pretty hot, actually, especially when they end up smashed against the wall or bent over his desk. Dante has a pretty good leash around his own demon, knows how to tell it to _sit_ and _stay,_ and he knows better than to poke at Vergil's volatility. But bearing witness to that crack and crumble of his brother's hard-wrought composure just does something to him and his dick, and there's only so much self-control Dante can inflict on himself. 

It’s also kind of sad, how they’re moping around like puppies after their owner. Demonic puppies, or something. Dante idly rubs a hand across his neck, tries to remember the feel of thick leather strapped around his throat and wishing the collar had left at least some kind of mark. From the corner of his eye, he sees Vergil stalk off around the corner, very obviously throwing around his aura like a radar, as if he could ping the moment V steps into his territory. 

_‘Just two more days,’_ Dante practically wills himself, scratching his fingernail into the wood of his desk. He has to — 

“Be a good boy while I’m gone,” V had said at the doorway, strapping on his boots and huffing his hair away when they got into his eyes. Then, almost lovingly, he had patted Dante’s cheek with a gentleness that betrayed the sweet cruelty his hand could deal. “That goes for you too, Vergil. I would like to have the shop in one piece while I am gone.” 

The last time V had left them on a mission trip at Nero’s behest — this time, to help with some ratty witch who’s been terrorizing a town by summoning demons nonstop — Dante and Vergil broke at least a few doors and shattered all their windows over some stupid argument none of them remember. V had returned, unamused, and delivered a promise of a reckoning. 

A delightful, superb, agonizingly decadent reckoning, Dante remembers with fondness. 

Now _that’s_ an idea.

Dante flicks his eyes to the corner of his desk, where V had left his favorite mug and no one cared enough to pick it up in his absence. He pushes it, slowly and inch-by-inch, like a smug bastard cat knowing full well of what he’s doing and doesn’t give a shit. 

It shatters like something beautiful, soft ceramic broken into sharp edges that vow consequences to careless hands. Just like V.

When Vergil pops his head in from the hall, alerted by the crash, he looks at Dante like an absolute idiot of a brother upon realizing what Dante just did. 

“Hey, Verge.” Dante says, mild as milk but with eyes glistening like a rogue. “I got a proposition for ya.”

Vergil’s attention is immediately seized.

  
  
  


Dante’s stripped bare, on his knees with his legs just slightly spread neatly under him, with one hand clasping his other wrist behind his back. His head hangs low just like his cock, hot and heavy and woefully untouched, and he stares only as much as he’s allowed, eyes obediently trained on dark boots. As per instruction.

He knows, if he lifts his eyes just barely, he could steal a peak, but the time for childish disobedience and impatient want is over; he’s still allowed to imagine, though. 

He imagines V, sitting in that armchair, legs neatly crossed over the other with his shining cane sitting in his lap. That chair is the only neat, tidy, and luxurious thing in Dante’s room — of all the messes and wastes he scatters across his things, it’s the one thing he _never_ touches — because it is a gift and a curse and a reminder all in one that they all know must be carefully regarded. Only V sits there, and when he does, oh it’s a skin-prickling pledge of retribution. 

When V had finally returned, it was with almost comedic but perfect timing. Vergil had pinned Dante down, the Yamato digging yet another hole in their newly-repaired floor just above Dante’s head, with the sad remains of the coffee table splintered and definitely unrepairable all around them. Dante had made sure to rough up the couch a bit too, with cotton and foam spilling from the gashes, and had thrown his retro landline phone across the room for some extra authenticity. And, of course, front and center: the broken remains of V’s favorite mug. 

V hadn’t even flinched, the only hint of his burning ire the flash of danger in his eyes, before promptly walking past them and up the stairs. He’s always been similar to Vergil in some ways, despite everything else they differed in, and how his temper flares is just so lovingly familiar, how their rage tends to burn so cold it freezes. All it had taken was a crook of his finger beckoning them up the stairs, and Dante had known he was _fucked._ Both he and Vergil.

“Just a little over a week,” V says, glacial and burning, “and I come home tired and weary, to see you two dogs tear apart the lobby. Yet again. What do you have to say for yourselves?”

Dante knows from that tone it’s a rhetorical question, that he’s not really expected to answer. He figures V doesn’t care for one either. V’s a smart guy, one of the smarter people Dante knows to be honest, so the truth behind their shenanigans should be a no-brainer. But it’s the game they’re playing at that draws out a shiver down Dante’s spine, and it’s not from the cold air against his naked skin. The sweet venom V spits at him, in a tone so deceivingly cool, and the gaze of utter contempt tearing into him, makes him break out in gooseflesh.

 _This_ is what he’s been missing.

And V, tired as he says from his witch hunt with Nero, is gracious enough to fill that void that’s been emptying both Dante and Vergil out. What a kind owner they have, despite them being rotten, good-for-nothing mutts.

“Look at me when I’m talking to you, Dante.” 

Dante feels it before he sees it, too caught up in his own imaginations. The sharp, dangerous edge of V’s cane gently crosses his neck, glides over his vital arteries with not even a nick, and its point nudges under his chin to lift his head. The metal is brutally cold against his burning skin, that's aching to be touched by anyone and anything but especially by V, and he obeys in delight at the favor to be given permission. An order, rather.

“Now, what must we do to rectify the situation, I wonder. Punishment, perhaps?” V says, when Dante finally lands his eyes on V’s regal form. Back straight, shoulders relaxed, plump mouth pulled in a slight frown while the rest of his face remains balefully calm. But in his eyes, in the forest green of his meadows, a fire smolders; and beyond that, lust. Dante can practically smell the smoke, feel its flame licking against his throat, taste it in the back of his mouth, and he aches all the more for it.

“Dunno,” Dante tries, slowly, tongue thick and uncooperative. He swallows, feels the edge of the cane dig deeper into his flesh, and he resists the urge to press against it. “Think I deserve it.”

V scoffs, unconvinced. But he leans in, hand sliding down his cane to keep it steadied beneath Dante’s chin as he closes the distance, until his breath ghosts along Dante’s. “What you think and what you know are two different things.” 

Like this, Dante can pick out the little flecks of color hidden under all the green of his irises, tiny specks of a blue so white that belong to their Sparda genes. He wants to lean in for a kiss, for a bite or _something,_ but V catches on too quickly and pulls away in rejection. Dante whines like a kicked animal.

V still keeps his cane aimed against Dante but lowers the point to his chest, a silent order to stay and heel, and he clicks his tongue in admonishment. He flicks his eyes to Dante’s left. 

To Vergil.

Vergil’s been given just a bit more leniency, privileged to at least keep his trousers — Dante suspects that’ll go away soon though — only because V knows the whole fiasco must have been started by Dante in the first place; still, Vergil gave in and had a hand in all this, so not even he could escape. 

“A pity, Vergil,” V almost sighs in disappointment, and Vergil goes rigid. “You’ve always touted the title of older brother, the more sensible and wise one. I thought you could at least take care of your brother in my absence” — then, a cruel smile — “Perhaps your… techniques leave something to be desired.”

Dante dares a glance over, sees how Vergil’s nails dig into the flesh of his palms. There are some insults Vergil takes more easily than others, those he can roll with and those where he'll throw his own snide remark in counterattack. This, however, is not one of them, especially when he’s fighting to keep his own fangs from baring at the hand that both pets and lashes at them. It doesn’t stop him from silently stabbing V with one of his death glares; Dante’s been on the receiving end of those more times than he can count, both the stabbings and the glares. 

Vergil’s scared away a few demons by that look alone a good number of times, but V just casually looks down at Vergil from the bridge of his nose, chin slightly tipped up in an air of superiority and with an unfaltering smile. He’s staring at a beast straight up in the eye, and he doesn’t even care that he’s playing with a potential _mauling._

They could tear V apart, right here and right now, sink their teeth into his throat and rip his heart right out from between his ribs. They could pin him down in a pool of his own making, make him choke on his own blood or on their cocks instead. But they don’t. And not on the virtue of lacking the ability to.

Just as V holds the metaphorical — and sometimes literal — leash on them, so do they hold his faith. He can push and prod and spit all sorts of abuse at them, knowing they will never lash out in turn. He strolls around in a den of lions, dangling freshly-butchered meat in front of them, and they can only huff and salivate by his feet until he feels gracious enough to feed them. 

There are moments few and far in between when Dante has to properly restrain himself, mostly out of courtesy for humans and their fragility, and even then he ends up making an expensive mess. He runs wild among the mayhem of demons, lets the blood soak into his skin and licks the gore from his lips, but within the confines of V’s oh so human hands he finds a deliriously sweet torture. There is a strange but distinct difference in this. This space where he finds pleasure in restraint, when otherwise he reigns himself in due to a weird set of morals and mindfulness for humans. 

When his demon is cowed, made into something so subservient and being willed into a docile little pet, he doesn’t have to think, doesn’t have to worry about how much strength is held back out of fear for collateral damage, when V wraps his hands around his throat and digs a fist into his hair. 

Dante likes being made obedient.

“But worry not.” V leans forward in his chair, and Dante woefully misses the cane that lowers to the ground. He runs a finger along Vergil’s face, from his chin and up along his jawline to his temple, where he lightly rests his hand to cradle his face. “I’ll make sure to teach you thoroughly and painstakingly.” 

Vergil likes it too — even if he’s not as vocal about it. But that’s the way it is with him, with a man so quick and adamant to speak his mind when crossing anything that displeases him; the fact that he rarely says anything of it means he’s at least tolerant. That he says nothing at all, never has, is telling. 

That he sits there, that he allows V this much and more, would let a human hand strike his face and bruise his skin, without so much as a single quip back, is evidence all on its own. Dante thinks it’s for the same reason as his own — call it brotherly instinct — if not something deeper; tired of chasing after power, and letting someone else hold it over him maybe. Some weird seizing of past trauma and claiming it as his, or something. It’s an odd coping mechanism, a little fucked up considering all the shit that went down during and after their estrangement and separation, but hey. Dante’s done weirder, and he'd be a hypocrite to call Vergil out on it because he's doing the same exact thing _together._

“First, make him work for it,” comes the first step. V takes his hand off Vergil and turns on Dante, looking upon him with an unkind smile. He threads his fingers through Dante’s hair, down to the base of his skull and lightly digs his nails into his nape. Almost like petting him. 

Dante momentarily forgets the dangerous position he’s in, vulnerable as he can be underneath V’s palm, and sighs in delight at the mere contact. It’s not what he’s been seeking, and it does little to douse the fire in his loins, but he takes whatever meager scraps he’s given like a starving dog. 

Then, in the same second, that gentle hand turns vicious, grabbing a fistful of hair that snaps Dante out of his short-lived peace. He has no choice but to follow the pull, lest he wish to go bald, and he finds himself thrown to the side at Vergil’s legs. Too soon, that hand is withdrawn, and Dante finds himself chasing after that pain and looks up to see an unenthused V. 

“Well, Dante? Show us your motivation.” 

Right, of course things wouldn’t be so easy. 

Dante licks his lips, formulating his plan of action and staring at Vergil. If the aching need in between his own legs isn’t enough motivation for himself, then the heat circling around Vergil’s eyes is. He places a tentative hand on Vergil’s thigh, and when he doesn’t get a growl or a swat in retaliation, he gets bold and starts travelling up his hip and along his taut stomach, feeling the hard planes of muscle and massaging his fingers into the dips in between. His other hand lightly grasps at the back of Vergil’s neck, toying with the short hairs there, and Vergil slightly tips his head to the side in permission. Dante takes that as an opportunity to lavish his brother, and he leans in to run a heavy tongue down that expanse of skin.

Vergil shudders underneath his offerings, soft sighs spilling from his lips as he receives all of the attention with open approval. Dante sees how Vergil flicks his eyes up to V, who’s returned to sitting fully back within his chair and content to simply watch, and how Vergil's hands at his side clench and unclench. Dante would fully love to have them in his hair, pulling and tugging, or on his own body to leave red hot trails down his back or along his arms. Vergil would love that too, he thinks, but is unable to — at V’s lack of instruction.

Dante makes use of that and nips at Vergil’s neck, hard enough to make him twitch, and he uses both his hands to properly worship his brother’s body, along his lean-muscled chest and down the valleys and peaks of his stomach, pausing here and there to run his thumbs over pert nipples. When he pinches, gentle but sudden, Vergil arches into it and almost flies a hand up to grab at Dante’s head, but he catches himself and brings his arm back, remembering the lack of permission to touch. Dante sees the moment his lips part in a soundless gasp, the way his eyelids flutter close at the sensation, and he makes to dive in to lick those noises right out of Vergil’s lips.

Except he feels a sharp jab at his side, hardly painful but a very real reminder, where V’s raised his cane against him again. He wishes it hurt more, in the back of his mind.

“No.” V simply says. “I don’t think you’ve earned that right. Besides, I’d like to see that legendary mouth elsewhere.” He lowers his eyes. Down, down, down Vergil’s body, as if soaking up the sight of Dante’s work like it’s the carnal aftermath of one of his demon hunts. V always did seem to have a thing for seeing all that power at work.

Dante traces his line of sight, and it takes him an instant to see the dark, damp strain against Vergil’s trousers there. 

“Really are making me work for it,” Dante whispers out dryly, words carrying none of the notes of a complaint despite his remark. He wants this just as much as Vergil does, that sweet ache mirroring his own. “I’ll show you motivation alright.”

“Yet here you are,” Vergil finally slips in, trying to wave his air of pompous attitude but fooling no one with his own growing need, “flapping your lips instead of using them.”

 _Ouch,_ now they’re double-teaming on him. Dante may not be able to shut V up, not that he’d want to, not when he needs those demands to be spoken to satiate his own desire to meet every one of them; but at least he can shut Vergil up. He makes quick work of freeing up Vergil’s erection, and it springs forth thick and wet and bare for only a moment before he dips down low to mouth at the shaft. Maybe if he was feeling a little more romantic, he'd take the time to admire his brother, but right now he has his own selfish needs to seek out. 

He tilts his head to the side, presses butterfly kisses up and down, uncharacteristically chaste and gentle for all the desperation he has on getting his hands all over brother dearest. Dante works his lips slow, takes his time to just barely take in the swollen head of Vergil’s cock past the ring of his mouth and uses his tongue to take kitten licks over the leaking slit, tasting a certain flavor that Vergil and V tend to overlap in. He wraps a hand around the rest of Vergil, where he can pump up and down and feel the strong throb in his palm, knowing his idle pace must only frustrate Vergil more.

He knows it works at his brother’s nerves when Vergil’s patience runs thin and he makes to grip at Dante’s hair, to shove him down and thrust his cock into Dante’s throat. But V has none of that and swats his cane against Vergil’s arm, and it leaves a faint red across his skin when he withdraws. Nothing that won’t heal in time, sometimes to their joint dissatisfaction, and definitely not hard enough to bruise or draw blood. If it were any other being, human or not, Vergil would have retaliated, left them in pieces or torn apart, but he merely stills and bites down on a frown.

“Ah-ah,” V tuts, tapping his cane on Vergil’s shoulder in a soft rhythm. “This is a learning experience, must I remind you, not a hands-on demonstration. Hands behind your back.” 

Vergil does as he’s told and clasps one hand on a wrist behind his back, just as Dante had been ordered earlier. His obedience doesn’t extend to his face, however, and he keeps a scowl that’s more directed at Dante rather than at V, and Dante smiles around Vergil’s cock, smug and satisfied. 

“Dante.” And his victory is short-lived when V pierces him down with his name drowned in disappointment. “It looks to me you’re not as motivated as I thought. Shall we end this here? Have you sit in the corner while I finish this myself, and leave you to your own devices? It seems to me the problem might not lie in your brother, after all, but in you.”

There’s a threat weaved in between the lines, one Dante knows V will very well deliver upon if he doesn’t step up his game. V could and would definitely make good on his word and stick Dante in the corner like a punished child, have him silently watch and suffer through blue balls while Vergil gets all the attention instead. He’s done it before, he’ll do it again. 

It’s hot and sexy and gets him riled up if and when the situation calls for it, but Dante definitely, genuinely does not want that today. He’s been pent up and hollowed out by V’s departure for the short week he’s been gone, and he’s starving to have that void filled, not emptied out even more. He panics a little, and it probably shows in his face because V’s expression suddenly turns soft, the stern lines on his face smoothed out into gentleness and his hand holding none of its cruelty when it caresses Dante’s cheek. 

V is off his chair now, on his knees beside Dante and murmuring in a sweet, comforting whisper against his hair. “Shh, it’s alright. Just do as you’re told, like a good boy. So long as you listen, I will take perfect care of you.”

That, too, Dante knows he’ll make good on. 

“Here, Dante.” V takes one of his hands, guiding it underneath to have it fondle Vergil’s balls, round and swollen within his fingers. He tucks away some of Dante’s grown-out hair away from his face and behind his ear, to clear up the sight of Vergil in Dante’s mouth. “Keep your other hand right there. If you want to go slow, then by all means. But do properly take in your brother and don’t tease. Riling him up will do you no good, understand?”

Dante nods, as much as he’s able to without slipping Vergil’s cock out of his lips.

“Good,” V says still in that patient tone, like a parent teaching their young child. “Now, take him in all the way. Breathe, mind your teeth.”

It’s funny, because Dante’s the one with the best dick-sucking skills out of all three of them and _he’s_ the one who taught V the tricks of the trade in the first place. But it's the idea that counts, that V's given him an order Dante is determined to fulfill. 

He does as he's told, taking a lungful of air before he takes Vergil inch by slow inch. He feels Vergil shudder, hears that lovely intake of a restrained breath — a gasp so quiet he barely hears it — when he presses the flat of his tongue underneath that heavy weight in his mouth. Dante moans, thick and low that borders on a growl, as he feels his brother slide down and against his throat. He doesn't even choke, merely savors the taste that is his brother and the fulfilling sensation, like finding that pesky puzzle piece to slot in. 

It isn't enough, but it helps take the edge off. He wants it rougher, _needs_ it rougher, yet there's an internal struggle to make his brother squirm with his pace; with the rate he's going at, he feels little more than a cock warmer. 

Vergil bucks a little, to bury himself within Dante and chase that throat fuck dangling just before him. Dante smiles as he backs up a bit to deny his brother, half to himself and half up at Vergil who glowers at him from above, a bead of sweat rolling down his beautifully-carved face to linger at his neck. He kind of wants to lick a trail up that wonderful curve, but that would mean leaving his mouth woefully empty; a trade-off he’s not too keen on just yet. 

“Actually —”

A hand returns to his hair, grabbing a fistful that pulls tight against his scalp, and shoves Dante forward. That earlier struggle of wanting it rough and wanting to make Vergil squirm, is brought to an end by V's own making; one less thing for Dante to worry about, really. 

“ — change of plans.”

Dante _still_ doesn’t choke, but the surprise catches him off guard and his eyes sting at the force that impales down his throat. He won’t die from asphyxiation — boy, what a way to go, death by Vergil’s dick — but his lungs still protest in his chest, burning for a fresh exchange of air, and the distraction almost makes him miss the delightful groan that makes it past Vergil’s lips. His brother is fully engulfed now, all the way to the root where his trimmed silver hair tickles Dante’s nose, and Dante can fully appreciate the unique musk that makes up their half-breed scents. 

He can almost feel how tight and wound up Vergil is by just having him in his mouth alone. Dante wasn’t the only one asking — searching, _craving_ — this; Vergil isn’t altruistic. Rare is it for him to indulge his little brother in anything that’s outside his own interests, after all. Twins might not be able to read each others' minds, but it's not rocket science to know Vergil’s fully invested in whatever V has for them. Vergil rolls his hips a bit, just enough to enjoy the sensation of burying himself in Dante’s throat, and he lets his head fall back in a lovely arch of his neck.

Dante squeezes his eyes tight, enough to see lights and sparkles dance across the backs of his eyelids, as he forces himself to keep where V has him. Dante could easily push him off, could break that hand like a toothpick, and he finds a twisted pleasure in that all his strength and power fall like dust before someone so painfully human. 

“You were having a little too much fun there, Dante, and that just won’t do for a punishment.”

 _‘Grab my hair harder,’_ Dante thinks to himself, only because he can’t speak it with Vergil crammed so far down his throat. _‘Push and shove me again, like a toy.’_ V could hit him across the ass and thighs with that sharp cane of his, and Dante would thank him.

V yanks him back out, giving him just enough seconds to cough for some air, before shoving him right back where he belongs, and Dante makes sure to keep his throat open and pliant. He could get off like this, with a burn in his hair and a burn in his throat, and he mindlessly moves a hand down to palm at his own cock.

His hand gets smacked away, promptly. Followed by something uncomfortably cold and tight that clicks around the base of his dick _._ He almost yelps, but Vergil’s making it hard for him to do anything other than hold his dick in his mouth at the moment.

Aw fuck, did V just — 

“A souvenir,” V supplies helpfully, “from the witch. It’s quite a funny story, now that I think about it, but one I might tell with you bent over my lap and _this”_ — he takes a handful of Dante’s ass and squeezes hard — “covered in red. You’re being rather naughty today.”

What kind of witch has a cockring laying around and decides to give it to a stranger as a present? (Probably one that’s about to get buried six feet deep and is looking for anything and everything for a ticket out of it, honestly. But still.) And knowing it’s from a witch of all things and not one of those discount sex shops, has Dante wondering what kind of tricks it’s got.

V’s kind of holding him by the balls here, not literally but almost with the way his fingers barely brush them in passing. It feels like Dante’s just about to burst from that alone, feels how swollen and heavy his erection is, and if he could _just get a little nudge then_

The ring tightens like a vice that borders on pain. It was just a snug fit, an added weight around his cock that at first didn’t seem to do much of anything, but now it feels like the damn thing is trying to hug his dick to death. Dante throbs and writhes within his confines, his hips trembling and caught in between the idea of trying to shake it off or staying put like the _good boy_ V expects him to be. 

“Fuck,” Dante swears the second V lets him breathe again, and he stares down in between his legs to at least get a look at the cockring. It… doesn’t look special. Silver metal that doesn’t look pliable enough to stretch or constrict on its own — even if Dante’s having the pleasure of feeling it do just that right now — though he thinks he sees some sort of engraving along it. He doesn't get any more time to get a closer inspection, because V has other plans for him. 

"Now up you go. I think I've seen you on your knees for long enough." V pulls him up with a tug on his hair again, but his hand slides down to the nape of Dante's neck, grip loose but with blunt nails digging into his skin there. 

Dante follows where he’s guided to the bed, almost wishing V dragged him by the hair instead. But that's sort of the point, he knows: a punishment isn't really a punishment if that's what he wants, according to V. He figures that's what V is getting at, meeting Dante halfway to not entirely miss his needs but not giving him the instant gratification he's looking for — a different kind of sweet torture that, really, Dante isn't unhappy about. Thinking about the logistics of it isn't that sexy though, but it helps that he can’t really think much outside of the ache in his throat, the fingers digging into his flesh, and the stupid-good-great-awful cockring wrapped around him; easy enough to just blindly follow and obey.

“On your hands and knees.” V casually tosses his hold off and away, and Dante’s left to fumble for a position on the bed. “You as well, Vergil. Up.”

Dante turns his head over his shoulder to see where V’s going with this, and he sees V point at Vergil’s pants to say, “You won’t be needing those anymore, either.” Then, when V catches Dante peeking, commands him with, “Eyes down.”

 _‘Spoilsport,’_ Dante complains to himself, doing as he’s told and turning back around to stare down at the sheets. He wasn’t expecting a striptease or anything, mostly because Vergil doesn’t particularly enjoy performing, which extends to him not having the charisma and expertise for it, but it still would have been enjoyable to watch him slide his pants off those long, strong legs of his. 

The bed shifts, dipping where someone’s put their weight on it, and he feels the unmistakable hand of V slide up his back and to his neck where he presses down. Dante bows his head, lower and lower at the unspoken order, until his forehead meets a pillow and his ass is angled up, body arched and presented like he’s begging for it — is begging for it.

There’s a click, and something cold drips down Dante’s back and into the curve of his ass that makes Dante shiver — not because of chills but out of anticipation. He only hopes that V will give him cruelty out of mercy, and not the other way around. 

“Don’t bother being gentle,” V says, but not to him. To Vergil. “Little brother is being quite the glutton for punishment.”

Vergil opens him up with minimal delicacy. He slides in one finger, doesn’t even bother to let Dante adjust or savor the sensation, then almost immediately adds in a second. He's _rough_ , ignoring that sweet spot in favor of loosening Dante just enough, and it's more uncomfortable than it is pleasant. But Vergil passes over it, with just enough pressure to spike something up a pitch, and Dante feels him prodding closer and closer with each stretch and thrust. 

Dante bucks back to try and meet Vergil’s fingers, but V digs his hand into his skull and buries his face down into the pillow. It _shouldn’t_ stop Dante. He could still move his hips, could easily lift his head against that meager strength bearing down on his head, but the command behind it is clean and clear. So Dante takes what’s left of his dwindling willpower and obeys, keeps his ass where it’s lifted into the air for Vergil to tease, keeps his head low and face-down. 

“Oh, Dante,” comes V’s smoldering whisper, low words burning against the shell of Dante’s ear. With how close he is, Dante can feel wisps of V’s hair tickling against his temple. “Bite the pillow, darling.”

 _‘What,’_ Dante wants to say. He’s not so far gone that the implication goes beyond him, but he opens his mouth to toss out a brave remark just as he finds out _V wasn’t fucking kidding._

He barely avoids biting down on his tongue and takes a mouthful of pillow, as Vergil tears out something guttural from Dante when he replaces his fingers with one hard snap of his hips. Dante’s pretty sure they ended up rocking the entire bed forward and into the wall, hard enough to knock off a picture frame or two, judging by the distant shatter he hardly registers. Or maybe that’s just a few threads of coherence snapping in the maw of Vergil’s single-minded conquest. 

And Vergil, that sick bastard, doesn’t even give him time to breathe, let alone think. He just strikes relentlessly, like those beautiful perfectly-timed arcs of his blade, but with all the savagery of an animal; mounting and fucking Dante like he’s a beast himself. _Goddamn,_ Vergil was pent up.

Good thing then, that Dante’s on the same boat, and he has a thirst to have it rocked and capsized.


	2. so lock me up, throw away the key

It’s a heady mixture of pain and pleasure, a bittersweet concoction that no one but Vergil has the ability to deliver; and even then,  _ even then, _ it’s a delicate line that has its challenges. Granted, both Dante and Vergil can take what they each dish out. There’s always a time and place for brutal, visceral fucks that would put all of hell’s sex-crazed fiends to shame; welcomed marathons that would leave them bloody and breathless but satiated. And there are other times, when all they want are gentle reminders and quiet confessions and to make up for lost memories; as if to fill in the hollow crevices that time has chipped into them, take up and share a piece of one another to slot in for what the other was missing. 

But when there’s the itch for a particular craving, for a touch that keeps the scales from tipping too far between tender love and primal urges, for a careful wind to keep the flame alive but not so blazing it burns itself up — there is V.

It would be far too easy like this, for bruising hands to turn into sharp claws and wicked mouths into heart-ripping jaws. A bit more, a step farther, and Dante and Vergil could fall prey to their base desires, to maul and devour and take  _ and take and take. _ There would be nothing gentle, nothing loving, just brutality and domination in their respective rights to conquer for what’s theirs. Of course, there’s nothing wrong with that. It’s pretty fucking sexy in a savage sort of way, in Dante’s opinion, to just let their demons out and let hell break loose. 

Right now, though, that’s not what he wants. It’s that particular sort of pain that wraps itself around his throat and makes his head spin, the kind that chains his demon down and tells it to kneel, and V is sure as hell hitting all the right spots without breaking a sweat. Without lifting a hand. Because it’s still buried in Dante’s hair and keeping his face buried into the pillow.

Breathing’s barely happening, really. Hard to do that with feathers and fabric clogging up his nose. And whatever miniscule breath he does get ends up being pounded out of him not even a second later with how brutal Vergil’s going to town on his ass. It’s a delirious burn that goes straight to his dick and up his spine, like Vergil is dragging ice all up along his back and making every centimeter of skin shiver and each muscle quake. A particularly well-aimed strike gets him howling, a sound that almost crosses the line beyond human; but beyond that, he hears Vergil’s low, dangerous growl, squeezed out of him when Dante instinctively clamps down hard.

He’s getting lightheaded, from the ragged puffs of air he’s barely getting and Vergil pretty much wrecking his brain with his dick, but it’s still not enough. He needs  _ more, _ less actually because the fact that he can still breathe at all is a serious crime and he needs a hand around his throat or better yet, a cock to choke on and all’s he got is this lousy pillow — 

“Dante, raise your head,” V says, mild like a spring afternoon. He brings his hand around, curls it around Dante’s jaw and lightly tips it up in encouragement. 

No need to be told twice. Dante obeys.

V takes those infuriatingly beautiful fingers and pushes them past Dante’s lips, taking his soft tongue in between them. Almost agonizingly, he’s slow and methodical — unlike the freight train at the other end — like he’s exploring the cavern of Dante’s mouth, lightly poking and prodding over his teeth or along his cheeks, barely pressing any which way to offer much discomfort. He curls his fingers, and Dante feels the light tickle where they tease his upper palate. 

“As lovely as you sound, I think we ought to mind the neighbors,” V mutters. Which, is a real fucking joke because they don’t have neighbors and no one in their right mind would want to move into some crusty ol’ buildings next to a devil hunter’s establishment. 

Dante kind of wants to make a quip at that, but that option gets nipped in the bud when V shoves his patient fingers into the sore mess of Dante’s throat, pressing down hard on the back of his tongue as he delves deeper. It’s nothing like Vergil’s cock earlier, when V basically shoved them together, but he tenses like it could be. It doesn’t cross his mind how almost automatic the response is; no shame here.

“I imagine you’d prefer more than my fingers.”

Dante nods, as much as he’s able to without slipping V out of his throat, but it probably doesn’t convey much considering he’s already trembling thanks to Vergil’s steady, deep fucking. 

Doesn’t stop the message from getting across though. Or maybe V just doesn’t care because either way, he simply replies, “Too bad.”

V withdraws his fingers, just long enough for Dante to suck in a few wet, sputtering gasps, before cramming them back in again with nothing of the exploratory gentleness he initially had done. He flexes his fingers, like he’s trying to stretch out Dante’s throat or to replace the proper girth of a cock in there. 

“Because you see, Dante. I know exactly what you want, and this wouldn’t be much of a punishment if I gave you everything that you wanted.”

Dante could finish like this. He could be given everything and nothing at all, and he could finish just like this. V’s fingers in his mouth, choking him and dragging along the softest parts of his mouth and throat, Vergil behind and making a mess without a single regard in his selfish greed of his own pleasure. Tears stinging and blurring at the corners, skin feverish and blistering from the boiling blood running in his veins, mouth and ass used and abused like he’s nothing but a doll. 

And he certainly feels it, feels the all too familiar and all too welcomed spool winding tight in his stomach and in his balls, how his dick swells and leaks and his thighs quake. 

V pulls out once more, just in time for Dante to yell a frustrated,  _ “Fuck!” _ when that stupid-ass cock ring reminds him of its presence, tightening mercilessly right before Dante can hit that high.

He almost sobs, but whatever garbled mess he actually manages to get out turns into stuttered gasps and broken syllables lost in space. Dante slumps his head back down, cheek on pillow, and helplessly rides out the waves Vergil crashes into him. V disappears from his line of sight, but his presence still remains all around; Dante wants V’s hands back on him — in him — again, but he knows begging and pleading for it will earn him no favors. As is his punishment.

He hears whispering, somehow, despite the groan of the bed and the obscene music of skin upon skin and their combined labored breaths. V’s whispering, he knows, the kind of sweet, low wisps that hide secrets within its lulling cadence. Something clicks, something familiar, but he can’t really spare any brain cells to connect the dots when each of Vergil’s thrusts knocks them a bit more loose every time. 

But when Vergil’s pace falters, when his nails dig into Dante’s hips with a certain sharpness, and there’s a particular out-of-place  _ moan _ that is undeniably from Vergil, Dante knows something interesting just happened. He feels the weight shift, feels where Vergil is against him and spreads his own legs wider and leans forward to press his chest against Dante’s back. It’s not enough to really put any burden on Dante, and he rather likes the contact of sweat-slicked skin sliding over his and the way Vergil tilts head to nip at the soft junction between Dante’s neck and shoulder. 

Dante likes to run his mouth a lot, but Vergil has a thing for using his teeth — a real biter, that guy is. What starts off as gentle nibbles turn into a ravenous hunger as Vergil gets serious and starts marking him up, and Dante’s breath catches in his throat when he feels fangs break through his skin. Fire erupts from where Vergil lays his claims, as if the inferno raging inside finally has an exit to seep out of, and he feels his blood burn where it seeps and trickles. Vergil growls are borderline possessive and vicious, a stark reminder of the demon that prowls behind his human face, of the beautiful monster that’s hidden away but threatens to claw its way out.

Dante salivates. He knows what he must taste like on Vergil’s tongue, smeared across his lips and coated over his teeth; Vergil’s blood has the same effect on himself. Maybe that’s why they fight so much, why they go for each other’s blood like it’s liquid gold, and why they give it to each other so freely. He tries to arch his back, against the weight of Vergil draped over him, tries to present his ass a bit higher and meet Vergil’s fluid hips, and to present his neck in submission for his brother. To give him everything he wants, because Dante is just so damn close to reaching that peak. 

Except he keeps forgetting about that  _ fucking cockring, _ and he almost cries when he feels its grip tighten around him. He chokes on a pitiful sound, and he really doesn’t care how that must make him look because all he cares is getting that damn thing off of him.

“On your back, Dante,” V says, louder and firm this time, somewhere from behind. 

Dante doesn’t really have to, because Vergil does the job for him, snapping his hips out so fast that makes Dante gasp at the sudden emptiness, clenching down on nothing and all the more ravenous for it, and at the sudden retraction of his brother’s mouth on his tender flesh, already trying to heal its wounds. Vergil grabs him by the shoulder and easily flips him over; and no matter how many times he does it, Dante will never stop getting turned on by the manhandling. 

His room is still spinning by the time his eyes make out the pale blob that is Vergil looming over him, feels the rough yank of a hand on his ankle and the other on his hip as his brother pulls him close and flush again to slide their cocks over one another — both too slippery and wet to offer much friction. V is behind Vergil, hands over his shoulders and chest lightly pressed against his back, watching Dante from on high. He whispers something in Vergil’s ear, noses against the shell of it before licking a trail along the curve, but keeps his eyes pinned on Dante. Something like teasing, like mocking, as he smiles one of those secrets when Vergil shudders. V’s fingers, Dante catches, have an odd glisten, and the pink dusting Vergil’s face is mesmerizingly deep.

Not like Dante must be looking any better, damp hair plastered all around his face, slick with sweat and most likely tears. Lips even slicker, eyes probably glazed and drunk.

Vergil, unsatisfied, growls something low and withdraws just far enough to press his flared head against Dante’s loose entrance again, but V’s hand comes around to stop him. 

“Next lesson: learn to share. Sometimes, that means taking turns. Didn’t mother teach you?” V says, tucking a bit of Vergil’s loose hair behind his ear. As if to further drive that point, he lightly smacks a hand across Vergil’s ass, huffing a breathy laugh at the indignant rumble Vergil clamps his control over.

Dante thinks it’s kind of fucked up to bring mom into the bedroom like this, but he’s far more enraptured by what V’s getting at. Gonna swap places with Verge? Sure, Dante’s totally game for V to properly get hands-on now and — oh.

When Vergil maneuvers Dante’s legs around, has them flat against the bed and climbs atop to straddle him, rubbing Dante’s too-hard erection against the cleft of his ass, well. Dante finally gets it. Yeah, his own dick is wet, but that doesn’t quite explain the slickness against Vergil, but he’s got an idea as to why. It’s not exactly a fine science to slot together V’s shiny fingers and Vergil’s earlier…  _ hiccup, _ but hot damn Dante bemoans the fact that he didn’t get to see it happen, face-down and moanin’ into the pillow as he was and all that. He’s also sort of jealous that Vergil got the VIP treatment in V’s elegant hands, but he’s not going to hang himself up on that when he’s got the next best thing literally sitting in his lap. (But to be frank, it’s hard to rank anything above or below one another when it comes to both of them. Kind of the whole two-in-one, or rather one-in-two, package deal.)

Dante slides his hands up and along Vergil’s thighs, marvelling at just how great they look underneath his palms. They’re lean, strong — strong enough to crush Dante’s head, probably, if that poor watermelon last summer was anything to go by — and perfect just like this, with the slightest quiver of anticipation and want thrumming in his muscles. He runs a tongue over his bottom lip, practically drooling at the idea of Vergil riding him and at the decadent portrait Vergil paints above him; even the ceiling light is positioned just at the right angle to shine a little halo around him. Funny.

And V, of fucking course, swats at his hands when they start climbing up to Vergil’s waist, and he gathers Dante’s wrists to pin them above his head as he sits next to him. 

“I didn’t say you could touch, Dante,” is all the explanation V gives.

“But I can.” Vergil slides in, just as he slides his hands over Dante’s chest, raking his nails over the pert buds there and squeezing a frustrated groan out of little brother.

Dante bucks his hips up, seeking out any kind of friction he can get by rubbing against Vergil’s ass, and digs his nails into his palms, gritting his teeth and doing his damned hardest to not rip his wrists out of V’s feeble hold. Just like V to send him on a rollercoaster of high’s and low’s. 

“What’s wrong, brother?” Vergil taunts, all haughty and stuck-up despite his laboured breaths and blown-out eyes. “Usually you’re a bit mouthier than this.”

“Oh, fuck off,” Dante spits out, all feigned venom and none of the spite. “Just thinkin’ things are a little, y’know, unbalanced here.”

“Hm, don’t mind if I do.” 

Vergil slips Dante inside in a smooth motion, lifting himself to plummet down on Dante’s engorged cock with one fell swoop. Vergil’s head slacks to the side, lips parted for a shameless moan, and eyes fluttering closed in obvious appreciation for it all. 

And while Vergil’s enjoying himself, Dante’s sort of stuck in his own level of hell. Whatever V did back there, did just the trick to loosen Vergil enough to take Dante in so easily. Dante appreciates it, sure, but the sweltering heat that’s wreaking sweet havoc on his dick and that Vergil’s clamping down like the greedy bastard that he is makes him want to combust. Every filthy slide and salacious roll of Vergil’s hips makes Dante tremble and groan, every muscle in his legs, arms, and stomach quivering in want of everything. To take his hands and slide them along Vergil’s sides and hips, to grab his waist and force him down and meet his own thrusts. To flip them over and throw Vergil’s beautiful legs over his shoulders and fuck the living daylights out of him. 

But Dante’s in no position — in power, yes, definitely _but_ _he’s not allowed_ — to do anything but let Vergil set the pace and let V hold his wrists against the bed. What’s worst of all is that damn, motherfrickin’ vice grip still hugging around the base of his cock, that’s keeping Vergil from taking in _all_ of Dante. He desperately wants to bury himself in his brother, to feel all of his sweetest, soft parts with everything that he is, and he’s being denied with each lecherous sigh that Vergil teases him with. 

“You’re thinking this must be unfair. You’re right,” V says, smooth as silk, uncaring of the plight Dante’s been thrown in. “I am not a fair person.”

Dante squeezes his eyes shut and chokes back a sob, overloaded with the excruciating gift that keeps dangling out of his reach. He wants to come, fuck, he  _ needs to come, _ but it’d mean jackshit if he can’t do it without all of him inside Vergil. And V just might make him, might just deny him everything that’s been building up this point, and that spark of fear casts a shadow over his head. Or, actually, that’s V himself, because Dante opens his eyes again to see his face looming above and a hand — not the hand pinning his wrists — cradling his face, a thumb gently swiping over his cheek where Dante didn’t even notice a tear had fallen. 

There’s a crack there, a peak behind that domineering attitude V’s been lording over them. Underneath, he’s all soft human bones and even softer human heart; that’s what he had been, after all, a human heart sealed within a bag of bones and topped off with paper-thin skin, before finally finding a place and reason for himself, with a generous helping of Vergil’s benevolence. 

Dante already knows the question before it’s even asked, sees it in the oh-so tender gaze and the creased lines of concern surrounding it. But V asks anyway, in a quiet whisper that borders on silence, “Are you alright?”

That’s the golden question, isn’t it? Between the ache in his ass and the ache in his dick, Dante, in all honesty, is feeling the best he has been in the past week. His edges are fraying, and his desperation is almost getting to the point of begging, but whatever V has in plan from him, Dante can take it. And if he can’t, he knows it’s perfectly acceptable to tap out. But he doesn’t want that, even as that option dances in the back of his mind, spells itself out in front of his eyes. He wants whatever V is willing to give and not give. 

Dante turns his head, rubs his cheek against V’s smooth palm and fingers, lets that touch linger along his skin. Even Vergil has stopped, still as he is to let Dante collect himself and his thoughts. For all the passion and fervor just seconds ago, he feels almost embarrassingly emotional for the sudden shift, that time has stopped just for him. That, more so than their own needs, V and Vergil are willing to give up theirs to tend to his. That, despite the violence and apparent ire among them all, there is love. 

“Good, ‘m good,” Dante manages, pushing down the creeping sentimentality that threatens an entirely different spectrum of tears. And, perhaps, directed more to himself than to V, “Absolutely peachy.”

There’s another beat of stillness when V doesn’t move or say anything, when he just simply stares him down, and Dante desperately hopes V will take his word for it as he sees those unspoken thoughts and calculations running behind V’s eyes. Dante’s throbbing  _ everywhere, _ all along his skin and his dick especially, but he could do without the soft ache in chest where his heart’s not quite ready for an emotional examination and breakdown. 

And then, V hums. Soft, in acknowledgment, in trust. Dante feels his heart do a somersault and maybe a jig at that, and he turns his head to sigh in relief against V’s palm. 

“Oh, Vergil,” V says, voice all smoke and dark honey once again, his eyes never leaving Dante’s, “perhaps we could use a lesson in gratitude as well. To properly savor and enjoy.” He leans down, creeping the distance in what feels like years, and ghosts his lips above Dante’s own, so close that Dante could count each little eyelash that crowns his heavy-lidded gaze. But just when Dante thinks he might be given the mercy of a kiss, V tips his head down lower, farther, where his warm breath graces his ear and sends a brain-numbing shiver down his spine with a single word, “Slowly.”

“Little brother does need a lesson in patience, as well, I agree,” Vergil says, a low laughter in his voice. He braces his hands back, holding onto Dante’s strong thighs for support and arches his back in a display for them both, and gives a slow, steady roll of his hips. It’s a shallow wave, barely lapping at the already shattered door of Dante’s will, but it crashes like a swell, and Dante can only tremble and gasp like a man caught in the storm. Vergil laughs, a full one this time, at the pitiful whines he manages from his brother’s throat. “It’s almost sad how desperate you sound, as if we haven’t just fucked the other day.”

“We should fix that,” V whispers once more before withdrawing to replace his free fingers back into Dante’s mouth. He’s methodically slow, as slow as Vergil casually shifting his hips in leisurely rocks, and prods around his teeth and tongue, not hard or deep enough to choke but enough to muffle whatever weak gasps and cries their torture brings out.

It’s infuriating. The frustration and edging is more than enough for Dante to completely forget about that near emotional surge just moments ago, as focused as he is to keep breathing and ignore the agonizing swell in his dick, the ring bound so tight that he can’t even hope for a proper orgasm. 

Eventually, after what feels like hours, V nods, not to him but to Vergil, and the pace quickens from a dawdle to an actual fucking as the bed springs groan in protest. Vergil leans forward, braces his hands against the hard planes of Dante’s stomach, digging his nails into the skin there and inciting another sweet agony as he rakes short trails along. He doesn't even bother to hold in his voice, and lets out his sighs and moans as if to drive the misery further into Dante. 

Dante very carefully makes sure to not bite down on V’s fingers — a most horrible sin to ruin them in any way — and it only marginally helps direct his focus on anywhere but the burning hot fire rampaging in his guts, demanding and seething to be let free. Doesn't help that V decides to get rough again, has them pressing and fucking Dante's throat in earnest now, and he's left with no choice but to choke on his own moans. Through his dizzy-eyed haze, Dante can make out an arrogant smirk on V's face; it's infuriating to see for the sole reason that he can't kiss it right off him. 

Dante thinks he really could just die like this, fingers crammed in his throat and an ass on his dick. Definitely not an awful way to give up the ghost, would probably be a hilarious story to tell to Nero's kids one day. Maybe write it on his tombstone or something too. 

Though it's probably telling how far gone his brain really is if he's thinking about his nephew's kiddos while he's almost sex-sandwiched between his brother and sorta-brother. Not like his mind can really wander for that long anyway; it gets sucked right back in as Vergil swallows him in deeper and rougher and faster, as his breaths become harsher and more ragged each time he spears himself onto Dante. 

And Dante knows this dance, this little ritual, how Vergil coils and tightens to the prelude of his orgasm. He hears it in his strained gasps, how the moans become trapped in his mouth as Vergil grits his teeth, how they become feral and turn into snarls should they manage to escape. He especially feels it  _ in _ Vergil. The body matches the soul, Vergil greedy and selfish for what he seeks to claim and conquer, and every drag of his hips clings to Dante like it refuses to relinquish the pleasure for even a scant second. Dante feels his brother’s walls throb and writhe all around him, milking him for what he cannot give, despite how Dante himself wants to spill into him and paint Vergil’s cavern with his own.

If V’s trying to prove a point, to literally pound a lesson of gratefulness and sufferance into him, Dante can’t say for sure how well it’ll stick in the long run, but he’s far past max capacity to take in anything more. When Vergil suddenly tightens around him, impossibly voracious and terribly mean, Dante almost bites off V’s fingers then and there, the sudden keen trapped within the too tight chokehold of his throat enough to push his control dangling off the edge.

V doesn’t seem to care — and if he does, there’s no show of it — but he does (smartly) slide his fingers out to bring them down the column of Dante’s throat. Then lower still, slick and warm thanks to Dante’s mouth, down his chest and down his stomach where muscles spasm and tremble under Vergil’s relentless subjugation and V’s domination over them both. 

“You may touch now. Consider it a reward for holding on this long,” V drawls, sliding his hand off Dante’s wrists. 

Dante’s hands fly, gravitating to Vergil like he’s scrambling for a lifesaver in the middle of a hurricane — in the sense that holding onto one won’t do diddly squat in the face of such a terrifying storm, but the bleak hope of it allows just a small fraction of comfort. He grasps at Vergil like he could be dying, one on a strong thigh and another at the apex of his hip, nails digging and hands shaking. 

In his brief jubilation of  _ finally  _ being given the right to feel the fervor and thrumming in Vergil’s skin, of feeling him oh so alive and burning and wanting and taking, he almost forgets where V’s other hand is.

But there,  _ there _ Dante feels it. Where V’s fingers meet the root of his cock, toying at the edge of the ring there. Hope flickers like the white dancing at the edge of his vision, pulsing in a mad thunderous rhythm like the blood in his heart and the blood in his cock, and he dares to let himself believe. Dares to utter a silent, incoherent string of prayers without caring for the irony or the hypocrisy of the idea. 

Maybe he should pray more, because a miracle happens. 

All at once the pressure rises, fills his head with nothing but carnal, wretched need the split second he feels the cockring give way, as he hears the quietest click that sounds like cannonfire in his ears. 

Dante spares no time or thought, feeling like a prisoner finally set free as the padlock falls and clatters, and he brings Vergil down  _ hard, _ burying himself completely and utterly within him. 

Vergil himself almost loses it, his ironwill shattering like the broken and stuttered moan that catches him off guard, from the sudden impact of having his brother fully-sheathed inside him. It doesn’t stop the bone-deep satisfaction of “ _ Yes, Dante” _ and the praise is more than Dante can take.

"Sing for me.” V’s order is all Dante needs, and the deep drop in his voice is like the drop of a bomb instead. “I’ll hear your ruin, Dante."

And oh, Dante sings. Screams, more like it, but that's a song all on its own. A few more violent thrusts is all he can manage before he becomes undone, all the mounting tension and crushing pressure rupturing out with the breath out of his lungs. Even as he gets lightheaded, he pumps into Vergil, shoving his release through and through, as shudders rack his body and his grip turns his knuckles bone-white. 

Vergil takes it all, almost demandingly, and he’s nothing but growls and bared teeth as if to threaten Dante should he do anything but. He returns Dante’s bruising grip with nails that scrape down Dante’s stomach, digging in furiously when he’s spurred on by his brother’s rushing torrent, and paints both their bodies with his release. 

Dante feels his walls turn achingly tight, milking him for all he’s worth. Vergil’s greedy as fuck and a damn hypocrite at that, always lecturing Dante on the vices of gluttony and yet here he is, trying to squeeze everything he can out of his poor little brother. But that’s just fine with Dante, and he only wishes he could give more. Physically, he could. He really could, just give him a second and he could go for another few rounds no problem; they’ve done bloodier, more claws and teeth and trigger-sex galore. But demonic stamina be damned because this whole ordeal tuckered out his nerves and his mental reservoirs. 

He’s still trembling through his orgasm, the aftershocks coming wave after wave from the epicenter of where he and Vergil are intertwined, and it feels like there just might be no end to it. Vergil still convulses around him, pulsing and squeezing around his abused cock, uttering wordless whispers that fall on deaf ears. 

V strokes his cheek with a certain gentleness that contradicts the amusement in his low laughter, and tilts Dante’s chin up at a slight angle with little effort; Dante’s kind of in the clouds right now, unable to really think of much anything, and is still heaving out a little string of gasps when V leans in. Properly, this time.

Dante’s too slow to fully grasp the sensation on his lips, the warm softness pressing against him and gently asking for an invitation in. Before he can even think of it, he automatically parts his mouth and lets V in, savoring the long-awaited prize as V lazily laps against his lips before venturing inside.

Dante moans into his mouth, throwing the rules and whatever punishment that might follow into the wind, and threads his hand in V’s hair, carefully tugging at the soft fullness of it and silently pleading for him to come closer. He feels a soft rumble, which must be another laugh, and V mercifully grants him his wish as he presses his lips harder though not rougher. The kiss is languid and smooth velvet, unlike the tumultuous passion that raged through and sent him through the wringer, and slowly brings Dante down from his high. 

V tastes and swallows each slowing and sweet gasp that Dante gives him, offers him a pleased sigh and sound in return, and he carefully guides him back into reality with soft whispers of encouragement and praise in between their breaths. “That’s it, Dante. Very good,” he murmurs against Dante’s lips. “Come back to me.”

When V pulls back, lips slick and beautifully kissed, Dante looks up at him with a weak lop-sided grin, eyes still half-lidded but bright and returned from the fog of sex and desperation. Dante’s lightly pinched on the arm, something like a wake-up call to confirm he’s truly back and alive, before V turns his attention to Vergil.

He gives Vergil the same attention, pushing away the hairs that had fallen out of his usual style and smoothing them back or away from his face. Kisses him softly on the eyelids and nose, before taking his lips and offering the taste of both Dante and himself. 

Dante can’t really see much from his angle, weighted down as he is from more of the mental exhaustion than the physical burden, but he enjoys the view anyway. Watching them almost makes him envious, makes him want another kiss that’s also flavored by his brother. 

Maybe V senses this, maybe he just knows it like clockwork, but he coaxes Vergil off of Dante, has him slowly lift himself from the softened cock, and guides him to lay beside Dante. Vergil falls onto his back with a grunt, throwing an arm over his face as he falls into a stillness, save for the heavy rise and fall of his chest. 

It’s quiet, the aftermath. For once, Dante’s content to just bask in bliss, tongue too heavy for a snarky comment. He’s tired in a good way, satiated and full, all that tightly-wound energy released and that hole in his chest neatly filled in and then some. If he could purr, he would. Just curl up in a little ball and relish in the gift he’s given; he still feels Vergil on him, in him, completing him in a way that rarely comes by when left to their own devices. He almost starts to doze off when he wonders how bad it really would have gotten if V had decided to be even one day late.

Which, speaking of V.

“Hey,” Dante’s voice catches, scratching in his throat that sounds horrible, and he peels his eyes open with the realization. He tries again, after clearing his throat, “Hey, V. You, uh, okay there?”

“Quite.” V says from the edge of the bed, posed to get up when Dante spoke. “Though I hope there is something left in the fridge for me to eat. I had to kindly deny Kyrie’s offer of lunch to get back home by tonight.”

Dante snorts. “Not what I meant, Sherlock.”

“Pizza on the counter,” Vergil groans out, a bit balefully. They’ve had pizza for three days in a row, thanks to Dante.

“Thank you,” V says to them both. Then, to Dante, “I know what you mean, and trust me when I say I am fine.”

Dante doesn’t, not when he knows just how  _ rousing _ it must have been for V to patiently handle them through all of that. With the way V’s angled and with his back facing him, it’s hard for Dante to actually get an honest gauge on V. Despite his body’s protest, of just wanting to rest and enjoy the afterglow, Dante pushes himself onto his elbows to sit up, but V is quick to press a hand against his chest and nudge him back down.

Dante isn’t swayed, and he remains a brick wall against V’s vain attempt. Dante’s gotten what he wanted, no need to play anymore; it’s only fair for him to return the gift.

Though, he supposes, that’s where he makes his mistake, when he thinks V gives up by snaking his hand up from Dante’s chest to linger at his neck, fingers barely curling around the side of it. V turns just enough to face him, and instead of the gaze of fondness or appreciation Dante expected, his eyes turn sharp and hard, like the nails that bury into the warm flesh underneath. 

Dante’s almost startled by the one-eighty, and he flinches not out of fear or pain but out of some automatic response of deference that V’s whipped into him, and well shit, it perks his dick back up a bit. 

“Did I say we were done? The night is young, and I still haven’t quite forgiven you for my favorite cup. Nero’s family gifted me that.” 

Oh, okay, yeah. Dante’s dick  _ really _ perks up at that. And oh look, he suddenly has enough mental energy.

“You see, Dante,” V says, echoing his words from earlier, “I know exactly what you want, and this wouldn’t be much of a punishment if I gave you everything that you wanted — both of you.”

From the bed, arm still over his face, Vergil groans. “I can’t believe I let my foolish brother talk me into this.”

V laughs, rueful and dark, and he pats Dante on the shoulder. “Now be good while I eat, and I may just be gentle this time.” He postmarks it with a chaste kiss to Dante’s mouth, purposely missing the mark on his lips and baiting him with a tease, before he rises to round the bed to Vergil’s side, nudging his arm off to briskly kiss him on the cheek. “I mean it, Vergil. I won’t be so lenient on you if you can’t keep little brother in check.” 

Vergil doesn’t say much to that, but he at least sighs out something of an affirmation. 

Dante lets out a breath he didn't realize he was even holding when V basically swaggers out the door; or maybe that's just the slight limp, but V carries himself like he's hot shit anyway. And honestly, who wouldn’t, especially if they held that much power over possibly the strongest demons this side of the universe? 

Only after hearing the footsteps fade down the stairs does Dante flop back onto the bed, arms sprawled to the side, a hand smacking Vergil’s face in the process. That earns him a hissed  _ “Dante” _ that he doesn’t even apologize for; he does, at least, move his hand off. He brushes his fingers against something small and hard, which he realizes upon glancing, is that god awful cockring he was tortured with. He has half a mind to throw it across the room, but he doesn’t trust himself to not break a window or smash a hole in the wall on accident. He’d also be lying to himself if he said that the whole ordeal was less than pleasant.

And V told them to behave, after all. 

Which only gives him another stupid, terrible idea. But what’s life without a little risk?

“Hey, Verge.” Dante glances at him sidelong, licking his lips. “I got a proposition for ya.”

**Author's Note:**

> (:3 」∠)


End file.
